Brewmaster Bito

Lore

One does not simply find Battle ’n Biscuits by accident — you earn it. From the outside, the chimney leans like it’s eavesdropping, it looks like a tavern that’s been rebuilt more than once — and never the same way twice. Inside, Battle ’n Biscuits is a thunder dome of clattering plates, shouted wagers, enchanted dice rolls, and unsolicited live music. Bito runs it all from behind the bar — armed with a mug, a ladle, and a sharp tongue that’s somehow louder than the crowd. The locals call him Brewmaster Bito, and he carries the name like a scar and a badge. It started as a joke, a nod to how serious he is about his dark roast and biscuits. But now? Now it’s a title. Bito brews more than coffee — he brews chaos, comfort, and conversation.

The building itself is a patchwork of repairs, magical reinforcements, and stories nailed into the walls. No two chairs match, and the long central table is warped from decades of spilled stew and rowdy games. Patrons duel over cards that bite, argue about rules written in invisible ink, and throw down coin in contests of speed, wit, and snack endurance. A huge magical sign over the hearth displays years of absurd rules like, “No poultry juggling” or “No sentient silverware”. These were clearly rules earned, not written.

No one’s quite sure when he arrived but what’s certain is that the moment he claimed the long-abandoned stone cottage at the crossroad, the village started waking up earlier — and smiling more. He’s not your typical innkeep, he’ll roast his coffee beans and customers equally. Gruff in the morning, sarcastic by noon, and oddly philosophical after dark, Bito has a knack for serving up exactly what you didn’t know you needed. Meals arrive without being ordered. Mugs refill without being lifted. And insults are delivered with a smile just warm enough to confuse you.

Breakfast is simple, filling, and suspiciously good. Coffee comes in mismatched mugs, each one enchanted to stay warm—unless Bito doesn’t like you, in which case it will gently cool out of spite. In either case, it’ll be strong enough to wake a statue. Lunch is usually stew. Dinner is whatever Bito felt like experimenting with, but it’s usually proceeded by the smell of char and burnt toast. Many stories have been born at Battle ’n Biscuits, but a few have stuck around like stains on the rafters. There was The Bread That Bit Back — an experimental sourdough that gained limited sentience, proclaimed itself Greg, and escaped into the rafters. It was eventually subdued using honey butter and is now mounted over the fireplace. And then there was the trio Bito incident.



One night, two Bitos came downstairs. Same apron. Same mug. Same expression like someone had just burnt the stew on purpose. They each insisted they were the real one and accused the other of being “a minor annoyance animated by ego and dark roast.” Tension rose. Patrons froze mid-sip. One of the Bitos started reaching for the coffee pot — and that’s when a third Bito strolled in from the pantry, already holding a cup. He walked past the others, poured his drink out without a word, filled it fresh, and took a slow, deliberate sip. The other two vanished. Just—gone. The room sat stunned. Bito looked around at the wide-eyed crowd and said, “Wow. You’re all ready bad at helping.” No one has spoke of it since.

And who could forget The Biscuit Rebellion — a brief but intense uprising of animated pastries caused by a wayward wish scroll left near the proving oven. At first, they were confused. Soft. Cooperative. But by the second tray, they’d organized. They slid off baking sheets in formation, used skewers as spears, and established a defensive perimeter around the kitchen. The biscuits staged a coup, barricaded the doors, and demanded jam. The standoff ended peacefully when Bito personally buttered every last one while making eye contact.

Bito doesn’t explain the magic. He just keeps the kettle hot, the doors sort-of unlocked, and the weirdness at a manageable simmer. Folks pass through, eat well, argue loudly, and leave with stories they can’t quite prove.